It was more difficult when others watched the inevitable splintering.
Other times, being unseen for too long was dangerous.
When all was said and done, the finish line might be cursory illusion.
The start gate, after all, had been jarring, to say the least.
The obstacle course in the scavenger hunt could subside with the fluffing of pillows.
One hoped for special effects while stringing the talismans onto a wrist band without a clear narrative.
The stop sign was stolen when one slipped out of focus.
I had forgotten to use permanent ink, and the sudden rain encrypted my sentences written to an estranged beloved who would sleep through winter anyway.
The mail carrier sings the same song every morning, which some days I find comforting.
The refrain often follows under eaves that don’t terrify completely.
When three hawks fly overhead, slicing the sky, they form a perfect triangle without a familiar beginning, middle, or end.
Their beating wings don’t cast shadows or substantially change anything, yet a feeling takes shape, a balloon that lifts the horizon.
Then the fog comes to erase my memories, my wanderings through the forest at night seeking absolution.
Sometimes the answer is another question spiraling.
Crooked hallways lead into stranger houses.
Books lining shelves mocking mirrors.
Bereft and disenchantment become synonyms that can’t fill a pitcher, pour out an anodyne.
Not every day’s a page worth salvaging.
We imagined the stars’ aptitude, powdered bones of our dead encased in glass.
I wanted to assist someone, anyone really. but I was busy drowning meaningless souvenirs.
Transgressions could be experiment’s unfortunate delay.
Things became so multi-layered, the mirror couldn’t do anything but multiply.
No strands of gray or white hair, the scalp’s genetic birthmark, could be expunged.
The manifesto targeted the ones dreaming in dumpsters.
When the storm hit, the ships unmoored moonbeams.
The wind doesn’t say where it has been even though I listen.
I could sleep only when church bells rang or when I located my grandmother’s purple dragon broach.
The stray dog has soot in its mouth and was frightened by anyone calling until the shaking of small stones.
Should you visit, I may not hear you if I’m once again painting noise.
The apple pie might burn while I dust for ghosts in the basement.
Don’t be alarmed by the clanging of.
Trial drugs would be money-makers, stock raisers, but no one believes, life rafts.
The disease could mutate a handful of times by the time you read this.
Ancient sages in a bamboo forest are sculpting giant hands to wave to eternity.
The applause craved occurs in increments like melody.
I discarded all time pieces to know myself better.
I missed the ticking when I wake, dislocated.
My attic room was an essay and multiple-choice exam.
The subject morphed while ideas receded the brain’s windows.
The lone race typified for typewriters.
Someone might tell the mother of the girl who studying under columbines during lunchtime that she needs a better coat.
The others are always throwing a ball, inventing new names for lost rabbits.
I wouldn’t say I was scared to any applicable parties.
The invitation came too late to RSVP properly.
I wanted to bring wine and align in time for the bonefire.
They echoed while I separated again, hiding from puddles.
Tomorrow I will be better, but I wasn’t sure if it was Friday or Saturday.
I’ll sew delicate curtains and invite the ghosts upstairs.
